Utter Retardation
by Truth-Seeking Cretin
Summary: Believe me, I'm trying as hard I can to not give this subversive parody a real plot, but by the FOURTH chapter that gets pretty tricky. Check it out, I guarantee you'll either laugh or cry.
1. Harry Fucking About With the Dursleys

Author's Note: What little of this story I do own I wish I didn't. Enjoy the show.

* * *

. "So," Ron intoned quietly, drumming his fingers on the metal grip of the large automatic pistol he held rammed into Harry's mouth, "Here we are. Ground Zero. Would you like to say a few words to mark the occasion?"  
"Hi hil han hinghohehihing." Harry mumbled through the stolen weapon in his gob. When you have a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels.  
"I'm sorry?" Ron asked pleasantly, removing the gun.  
"I said I still can't think of anything." Harry clarified. Ron ignored this.  
"Almost time." Ron muttered as he walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the skyscraper and looked down at the city below. As he leant over to look down at the ant-sized people down below, he braced his hands on the glass, clinking the gun against it. For a moment Harry forgot about the 400 gallons of nitroglycerin in the parking structure of a building less than half a kilometre from where he sat and wondered about how clean that pistol was.  
Harry thought about everything that had happened up to this point: the insomnia, the support groups, the boredom, Fight Club, Project Mayhem, and suddenly realised that everything that had happened had something to do with a girl named Luna Lovegood.

* * *

. WAIT WAIT WAIT! You didn't seriously think I'd start the story that way, did you? I'm not that obsessed with Fight Club! Christ, show some respect for the author, people!

* * *

. Harry was draped over his mangy bed in the smallest bedroom of number 4, Privet Drive. Why, you ask? Damn, that question could have any number of answers. One such answer is that even after the showdown with Voldemort in the Ministry of Magic, Harry had still failed to work himself up into a paranoid venemous neurosis like a victim of crime is supposed to, and had decided to hold on to his self-hating angst for a little while longer. Another answer is that his abusive aunt and uncle had neglected to move Harry's back to the cupboard under the stairs after realising that Harry's continued use of the guestroom was unnecessary because it didn't fool the magical letter-sender of his first year and there was no reason to leave him there now. Yet another answer is that Harry was so apathetic, lazy, overheated from the summer heat wave, and bored of sitting around inside a house which was a bog-standard textbook case study of painful normality, that he felt like draping over his mangy bed instead of sprawling over it or collapsing over it, those had gotten boring ages ago. Yet another answer is that billions of years ago, an incredible event occured, where all of the matter in the universe exploded out of a single point the size of a pin, and a phenomenon called gravity attracted them - (insert 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' clip where a hundred armour-clad people scream 'GET ON WITH IT!') - Anyway Harry was fulfilling all the clichés of the start of Harry Potter books.  
  
"I am so bored." he droned, voice slightly muffled from the blanket. (Insert masterfully detailed and spectacularly boring description of Harry's exact thoughts on how bored and angsty he is, which was interesting in the early books but which I now skim past.) "I wish Sirius was here. And that Diggory hadn't died." he thought aloud, choking back a sob. (Cue Audience's 'Awwww.' Cue my loud, obnoxious fart.)  
  
Harry thought about the people he knew and liked. He thought about Ron, and all his cool brothers. The coolest ones were, without a doubt, Fred and George Weasley. Last he'd seen them, they were dressed in dragon skin. He wondered how extravagant their attire would be now.  
  
Suddenly Fred and George Apparated before him. Each one was decked out in so much gold leaf, gold chains, diamond studs and platinum rings that each made Goldie from 'The World is Not Enough' look like a Puritan monk.  
  
"Holy shit, I can manifest thought! Dumbledore never told me about that ability!" Harry screeched.  
  
The twins glanced at each other. "What the bloody blue blazes are you babbling about, bro?" Fred demanded. George slapped him for making such a long string of alliteration at the cost of running together three differently-styled vocabularies.  
  
"Oh, just me being a wanker and jumping to conclusions." Harry shrugged. "What are you doing here? And what are you wearing?"  
  
"Our joke-shop-cum-protection-racket is doing really well, so we treated ourselves." replied Fred.  
  
"Der-brains, we've come to rescue you from your severely dysfunctional household to send you to Grimmauld Place!" George exclaimed, answering Harry's first question.  
  
"You know, it could be argued that Grimmauld Place is an even more dysfunctional household, what with the dilapidation, decay, coming and going of warriors all the time, the permanent portraits of supremacist wizards, the most recent owner dying a not-so-violent death - "I was saved the necessity of finishing this sentence by George shooting Harry in the balls with a paintball gun. Harry slid off the bed screaming.  
  
"You ought to know better than to try and approach things from an intelligent standpoint!" Fred scolded. "The target market of these books is a melting pot of the bored hordes of youth, there's no room for intelligence!"  
  
"Discussing the nature of dysfunction?" George disdained incredulously. "You might as well have started arguing about the etymological roots of extracts of Noam Chomsky's major works! You got off lightly this time!"  
  
"What the hell's all that screaming about?" Uncle Vernon bellowed from downstairs. "If you don't want me to beat the shit out of you, shut up now, because you're putting Petunia off her blowjob!"  
  
Harry, Fred and George all cringed at this very very wrong mental picture. Many readers clicked back on their FanFiction.net browsers at this point, and two or three with weaker constitutions then chewed linoleum and topsoil to try and block out the image.  
  
"Who's up for an ill-advised, out-of-character massacre of the Dursleys out of revenge for this author being such a twisted motherfucker?" Harry asked conversationally, extreme determination and revulsion overriding the throbbing agony in his balls.  
  
"Aye." The Weasley twins chorused.  
  
The three took out their wands and kicked Harry's bedroom door through. They forced their way into Dudley's room, and Harry's "AVADA KEDAVRA!" sent a bolt of greenness sailing into Dudley. Dudley defeated the killing curse in a different way to how Harry did when he was one year old, and in much the same way that Cartman defeated a direct hit from a dodgeball in South Park.  
  
"He's so fucking fat he just absorbed it!" Harry stated in a yell.  
  
Dudley's mind raced with the viscosity of treacle (for Americans, the speed of molasses). "Are you calling me fat?"  
  
"Three simultaneously after three! One, two, three! AVADA KEDAVRA!" Three curses did the trick, Dudley flopped dead to the floor. The murderous three charged downstairs and into the living-room, where Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were having a little 'stress-busting session'. The three took one quick look, vomited everything they'd eaten in the last day, and collapsed unconscious.

* * *

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT

* * *

. "How do you plead?" asked a Wizengamot elder.  
  
Harry thought for a second. "Guilty."  
  
"So the defendant pleads not guilty." she stated clearly to the scribe, who scribbled something out.  
  
"You misheard me - " Harry informed her politely, hiding his alarm.  
  
"I think we've heard enough about this case, agreed?" the elder asked. There were nods and murmurs of assent.  
  
"I want to plead guilty!" Harry said loudly.  
  
"Now it's time to vote on the matter." she said. "Now the votes are counted [no such thing was actually done] we have reached a verdict. Harry Potter, George Weasley and Frederick Weasley are innocent of the murder accusation levelled against them, based on the incontrovertible fact that their victim was such a fat fuck that not only was it deserved, but their behaviour qualifies as a mercy killing. Court dismissed."  
  
Harry was gobsmacked by the court's decision. Then he really was gobsmacked when Ron charged up to him, tried to thump him on the back in a friendly way, missed, and punched Harry in the side of his jaw. Harry blacked out.  
  
He woke up flat on his back in the hallway outside Courtroom Eleven. "Are you alright, Harry?" Ron asked, concerned. Harry lashed out upwards with a foot, connecting with the side of Ron's head.  
  
"Now I am." Harry muttered, as Ron slumped against the wall and blurted out a string of oaths of which a drunken ex-naval-type turned farmer would be proud of.  
  
"Strewth, Harry! Gotten off on a Wizengamot charge twice within a year! You're getting criminally charged a few too many times, eh?" Bill Weasley grinned.  
  
"Strewth is Australian, not British." Harry reminded him. "The word you wanted to say was 'blimey'."  
  
"Oh, yeah." Bill said, brow furrowed. "It's hard to stay in character all the time when you're a twenty-nine-year-old American acting university graduate with distinction who's playing a hip, twenty-year-old British curse-breaker."  
  
"The disadvantages of hiring Steven Spielberg to make this movie." Harry agreed.  
  
All the characters present, including Harry, Ron, Bill, Fred, George, Ginny, Hermione, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, a passing Wizengamot elder and half a dozen extras in the background, take a moment to stare pointedly at the reader to make sure that the author has clearly expressed his distrust of any notion that Spielberg would have made a decent Harry Potter movie. The moment is reminiscent of the Two Minute Silence. Then things go back to normal, or as normal as they have been (about as normal as an amputee albino oragutan-turtle crossbreed mutant who's playing 'Flight of the Bumblebee' in A minor on the rectal trumpet).  
  
Towelie came in. "You wanna get high?"  
  
Harry stared. "Not right now. Aren't you only supposed to show up if we mention water?"  
  
"You just did, silly!" Towelie giggled.  
  
"After you came in." Harry pointed out.  
  
"Say what?" Towelie asked, perplexed. Then Towelie imploded into a neutron star because he was getting boring. The people present forgot him with remarkable speed.  
  
"I'm glad you weren't convicted, Harry." Mrs. Weasley gushed.  
  
"Yeah, whatever." Harry replied. "All right, Ron?"  
  
"Yeah." Ron said. "Over the summer I got into the Bloodhound Gang. Dean Thomas introduced me to some of their great works."  
  
"Does this mean you finally understand electrical appliances, if you're listening to Muggle music?" Harry asked.  
  
"Oh, I always did, I was just joking when I pretended not to." Ron explained wearily. "Don't tell me you think so lowly of me that you believed me, it's so fricking simple to understand electricity!"  
  
"Oh, sorry." Harry apologised.  
  
"Hang on for a bit, this is a great song." Ron informed Harry. Harry only just realised Ron had been listening to an earphone all this time. "It's 'I Hope You Die', and it's so funny!" Ron turned his head to the ground as they all continued to walk out of the dungeons, and started singing along with the music.  
  
"I hope you flip some guy the bird  
He cuts you off and you're forced to swerve  
In front of a tourist bus, a Booksmobile, and a Mack truck  
Hauling hazardous biological waste.  
The light turns red  
You have no brakes  
And Hard Copy gets it all on tape  
So you can see the look on your face!  
  
Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! ... Die!  
Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! ... Die!  
  
I hope your Pinto begins to spin,  
Takes out a disabled Vietnam veteran,  
Mows down a Nobel Peace Prize winner  
And maybe some orphans having Christmas dinner.  
Perhaps even the British Royal Family  
and the Rabbi who's watching a bottlefed puppy!  
And we can't forget the newlyweds  
And the Series kids are as good as dead!  
  
I hope this helps to emphasize:  
I hope this helps to clarify:  
  
I HOPE YOU DIE!  
  
...  
  
I hope your cellmate thinks he's God  
But CNN referred to him as Bowling Ball Bag Bob.  
Serving time again for a piece of a corpse  
Only this time the victim's a hightail horse.  
While he masturbates to photos of livestock  
He does the Silence of the Lambs dance to Christian rock!  
Eats faeces and quotes from Deliverance,  
And he fights with his imaginary playmate Vince!  
  
Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! ... Die!  
Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! Die! ... Die!  
  
I hope he grins like Jack Nicholson,  
And forces you to play a game called 'Balls on Chin'!  
And whatever happens next is all a blur,  
But you remember 'fist' can be a verb!  
And when you finally regain consciousness,  
You're bound and gagged, in a wedding dress!  
And the prison guard looks the other way,  
'cause he's the guy you flipped the bird the other day!  
  
I hope this helps to emphasize:  
I hope this helps to clarify:  
  
I HOPE YOU DIE!  
  
...  
  
I HOPE YOU DIE!"  
  
Of course, while Ron was reciting this delightfully uncouth song, everyone else was talking. "Did you hear about what Fred, George and I did, Herm-" Harry stopped dead here when he looked at Hermione, because he suddenly realised she was decked out in full dominatrix regalia, including purple leather clothes, seven-inch heels and studded horsewhip. It's a testament to how gormless he is that he didn't notice before, or possibly it had to do with the aftereffects of being knocked out.  
  
"Yes, Harry, I'm a dominatrix in my spare time." she sighed. "It's a testament to how gormless you are that you didn't notice before, or maybe it has something to do with the aftereffects of being knocked out."  
  
"Apparently she just found out about your trial this morning, and had rush here from a job of hers without changing." Fred smirked.  
  
"But we all know it's just shameless free advertising." George grinned broadly.  
  
"So far we've counted three Ministry members and one cleaner who did a bigger double-take than usual when they saw her, and who we consequently suspect of being her customers." Kingsley told Harry. "Of course, she denies it."  
  
"I deny it!" Hermione objected shrilly.  
  
Mrs. Weasley, being an old-schooled fuddy-duddy, was looking dangerously angry with Hermione for so overtly expressing her sexuality. Dangerous to herself, I mean. Her lips were pursed unhealthily tightly as though they were in a hydraulic press, her face was so flushed and contorted she looked like she had a bleeding head wound somewhere on her hairline, and her eyes were so narrowed that she couldn't see anything and kept knocking into people and objects, muttering, "Sorry," to them whether or not they were alive. But a few minutes later, when the conversation progressed to Hermione's views on bestiality, her blood pressure tripled, resulting in instant death from a kind of aneurism.  
  
"Oh, dear," Mr. Weasley said in some consternation, staring at her crumpled form. "Dearie me."  
  
"That's the end of all the nagging!" Fred yelled, pumping his fist in the air. There was a loud POP! and some clinking. George had just uncorked champagne and produced champagne glasses for everybody. Even Mr. Weasley took one, and they toasted to: "Mrs. Weasley having duct tape over her mouth for the entire span of whatever afterlife there is, so she can't nag people!"

* * *

Make sure you lengthily review about the hideously painful death I deserve for contriving this. On the off-chance that you're on crack and you actually enjoyed this, give me some advice on where you think it should go, because although I've written half the next chapter I don't know where this "story" is gonna go. 


	2. Harry: Saintly as Carlos the Jackal

Author's Note: I still wish I didn't own any of this mental defaecation, and I certainly don't own any of Harry Potter. As for the ONE reviewer I got, rejoice, for the second chapter of 'the best thing on FF.net' has landed, with the grace of a one-winged pheasant riddled with buckshot.

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* * *

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT

* * *

. When the Thestral-drawn carriage slowed down and came to a halt, Harry stopped playing the spread-hand table-stabbing knife game enjoyed by many gangsters and cutthroats worldwide, stopped kicking a Ravenclaw second-year in the face, threw a Hufflepuff second-year facedown into the mud outside the carriage, and used him as a stepping stone over the mud, followed by Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Dean and Lavender. They traipsed up to the castle, but because the weather was being so unruly they only paused to push Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle into the lake, and to curse a couple of Slytherins in the back, and to throw rocks at Professor McGonagall, and to wedgie a couple of fourth-year Gryffindors at Ginny's request, and to throw a few more rocks at Professor McGonagall.  
As they waited in the hall for the first-years to show up for the Sorting ceremony, Harry carried on with the gangster knife game while Ron made a drug deal with several Slytherins and Hermione had a bitch-fight with Pansy Parkinson. At long last the sopping wet first-years came into the Hall, led by Professor McGonagall and Hagrid.  
The Sorting Hat burst into song:  
  
"Immanuel Kant was a real piss-ant  
Who was very rarely stable.  
I. Deggar, I. Deggar was a boozy beggar  
He could drink you under the table.  
David Hume could out-consume  
Good ol' Friederick Hagel.  
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine  
Who was just as shloshed as - "  
  
"That's the Philosopher's Drinking Song, not the newest Sorting song, you senile old hat!" Professor McGonagall screamed.  
"Oh, sorry, Professor." the Hat smirked.  
"One more thing like that and I'll cut you up into squares and use you to patch people's robes!" McGonagall bellowed. "Now get on with the real song!"  
"Well, um, Professor, there's a problem, you see." the Sorting Hat muttered apologetically, staring at the floor, stalling for time.  
"Which is?!" she rasped severely.  
"I haven't thought of one this year." it admitted quickly.  
"What?!" she shrieked.  
"I tried, Miss, honestly I tried!" the Hat sobbed. "But you try thinking up a new song about exactly the same thing every year; even if you're more musically talented than the Muse you run out of material after a few hundred years!"  
"Well, instead of admitting it, you should have used one of your previously created songs which was so old not even that candy-crazy old fart Dumbledore would have remembered it, and pretended it was new." she reasoned, calming down slightly.  
"Are you joking?" The Sorting Hat yelled. "The colloquialisms of the English language, and the meaning of most of the words, were completely different seventy years ago! Even if I could remember one of those songs, they would sound like Celtic folk music today!"  
"Oh, fine!" she snapped. "Carry on with the Philosopher's Drinking Song and start the Sorting!"  
"Where was I? Oh, yes - "  
  
"And Wittgenstein was a beery swine  
Who was just as shloshed as Schlagel.  
  
There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ya 'bout the raising of the wrist.  
Socrates himself was permanently pissed.  
  
John Stuart Little of his own free will  
Drank half a pint of shanty and was particularly ill.  
Plato, they say, could stick it away  
Half a crate of whiskey every day.  
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle  
And Hobbes was fond of his dram.  
Rene Descartes was a drunken fart  
'I drink therefore I am'.  
  
And Socrates himself is particularly missed;  
A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed."

* * *

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT

* * *

. Harry sat at the back of the History of Magic classroom, making out with four topless groupies. He had put his glasses into the pocket of his robes, now cast over a chair. He was wearing nothing but boxers and socks, and would doubtless lose those too within the next five minutes.  
"If I'd known Binns was this bloody clueless, I'd've been doing this kind of crap for ages." he thought aloud as Binns continued with his lecture on post-1914 goblin control legislature.  
"Since when do you get groupies, Harry?" Ron asked in an annoyed voice, openly masturbating under the table.  
"Ever since I got back to Hogwarts and all the insecure girls around the place found out I've now faced Voldemort five times without dying." Harry answered, voice slightly muffled because of the girl trying to slurp his tongue out. "Haven't you noticed I've been doing this stuff for the entire of the three weeks we've been back, except not in lessons before?"  
"No, I hadn't." Ron replied honestly, getting back to listening to 'Magna cum Nada' by the Bloodhound Gang, fantasizing that he was in Harry's place right now and jerking off under the table.

* * *

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT

* * *

. Harry stepped down the fairly steep stairs into the lowest level of the dungeons. All the other members of the secret association were already waiting. Harry looked around from fanatical face to fanatical face as he noisily clumped down the stairs. He came to the bottom and continued walking. The crowd moved around either side of him as he walked forwards, making him feel like Moses parting the Red Sea. He came to the centre of the room, moved a little towards one of the walls, and faced his audience.  
He opened his mouth and began to speak loudly and clearly. "As is the usual, I recite the rules before we start. Rule number one is, you do not talk about Fight Club. Rule number two is, you do not talk about Fight Club. Rule number three, only two people to a fight." Wait, shit, scratch that crap right there. I don't want to get back into Fight Club, let me start over.  
He opened his mouth and began to speak loudly and clearly. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for showing up to participate in this devious plot. I see that, because none of you require hospitalisation from near-fatal burn injuries, that none of you have any intention of betraying this cause, or else you would not have passed through my Intention-Finding Invisible Force- Field on the doorway. As you must all be aware, I am intending to assassinate the majority of the high-flyers in the Ministry of Magic because they're bellends and I feel like it and I want the infamy." Everyone remained silent. Suddenly a Slytherin stepped forwards.  
"I just want to say that I don't give a monkey's about your politics, I'll follow orders and not tell anybody what you're doing as long as I get paid." he said bravely.  
"Yeah!" agreed a Slytherin witch.  
"Hear, hear." Ron called from the back.  
Soon Harry was on the receiving end of a cacophonic barrage of assurances that nobody wanted to hear Harry railing against the government, they just wanted him to hand out orders and pay.  
"Fucking fine, then." Harry snarled. "Right, who here has parents or contacts in the Ministry?"  
A selection of hands went up.  
"All of you are to keep your ears to the railtracks, learn as much as you can about the comings and goings of everybody, especially those of that incompetent Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. The rest of you, practice all of your offensive spellwork, and show up for Dark Arts lessons here once a week at this day of the week and time of day. Such skills will be essential for the impending attacks we will start and my reign of terror, although you will not be paid during this time.  
"And now, everybody get into a good bit of space so we can start the Dark Arts lesson."  
There was scuffling as the crowd of people separated from being one amoebic blob in the middle of the room until they were evenly spread out around the dungeon, all looking to Harry for direction, who was busy reading a book from the Restricted Section as to how to do certain Dark charms and hexes.

* * *

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT

* * *

. Harry was bodily hurled into Dumbledore's office. His robes and boxer shorts were tossed in after him.  
"Fucking hell, Harry, you degenerate!" Dumbledore hollered, shattering the Sugar Quill he was sucking. "I've already told you once today, you can't just start having sex with groupies in corridors between classes! There are first-years and such going about who aren't legally old enough to know about such things!"  
"Yeah, yeah." Harry replied surlily, still relishing that fantastic move that Hufflepuff seventh-year just did which Harry had never experienced before.  
"Not only do you act like an oversexed rabbit in the corridors, I've also heard complaints from your teachers how a selection of young harlots will suddenly barge into their classes and start an orgy with you, and the house-elves have barged in on you naked with girls in the common-rooms of every house and at all hours of the day!" Dumbledore screamed. "How the hell are you getting this much action, you runty little shit?"  
"Well - " Harry began.  
"I don't want to know!" Dumbledore bellowed. "Just get your shit together and stop screwing around in public! Christ, use the Room of Requirement or something when you feel like getting laid! If I hear one more story about you and some ho naked together in public again, I'll expel you!"  
"First of all, the girls seek me out, not the other way around, so I don't choose where it happens." Harry reasoned. "And second of all, if you expel me, then I might just have a little meeting with Rita Skeeter about your... extracurricular activities with Filch... or should I say... SLAVE- BOY!"  
Dumbledore sucked in breath sharply. "How the hell did you find out about that?"  
Harry grinned. "I have my sources. And I also know that your punishment of slave-boy isn't even the worst of your sexual preferences and practices; I know about your sordid escapades with Mrs. Norris too, you sick fucking zoophiliac."  
Dumbledore fell to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes. "Please don't - please don't tell anyone." he gasped piteously, the picture of pathos.  
"I won't tell anyone on several conditions." Harry informed him. "Number one, you don't let anyone interfere with my ridiculously rampant sex life. Number two, you quash any rumours circulating about me or any accusations levelled against me no matter how illegal the content of them are. Number three, you will let me take out any books from the Restricted Section that I please. Number four, you will accept any other conditions I might come up with some other time. You got all that, you senile cat-burgling masochistic candy-crazy shit-kicking motherfucker you?"  
"Fine, fine." Dumbledore sobbed.

* * *

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT

* * *

. Harry smirked as he spread that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet on the Gryffindor breakfast table. The headline read 'MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT LEADERS BRUTALLY MURDERED'. Below it were four pictures, one of each victim, taken prior to death. They were the head of Magical Law Enforcement, his assistant, his understudy and his son, each moving picture blissfully unaware that they were now mangled cadavers in real life.  
Blaise Zabini sidled over to Harry. He spoke out the corner of his mouth, pretending to be examining the Prophet over Harry's shoulder. "The son was a cinch. Told him there was a nutter torturing people in an alley, then cursed him in the back as he ran in. Then I used the sword to kill him, just like you ordered."  
"Good work." Harry muttered. "I'll pay everyone involved at tomorrow's meeting." Harry looked further down the page to read the subtitle: 'Four High-Flyers Stabbed to Death Last Night. New Head of Magical Law Enforcement Alastor Moody, Pulled Out of Retirement to Lead the Investigation, Suspects a Conspiracy, As He Usually Does." Harry giggled in delight. He'd show Voldemort how to run a secretive murderous rebellion, oh, he'd show everybody. And when the dust cleared, Harry and his army would be left standing on top of a pile of corpses, the new rulers of England.

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* * *

Author's Note: If I don't get two reviews or more for this chapter I won't bother continuing. So if you enjoy reading this felony against literature, review, asshole!!! 


	3. Harry's Oversexed

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so long in the making. In theory, because this is the longest summer holiday I will ever have in my life, I could churn out a chapter every day or two, but because I'm in a summer camp in Quebec the matters are greatly complicated, not least because these money-grubbing cocksmokers charge $5CDN a day for internet. Anyway, I am pleased that this is already my one story with the most reviews, so I will continue to make reputable authors spin in their graves by gleefully expunging the dingy corners of my psyche and slapping it onto the 'net for your dubious reading pleasure.

* * *

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT

* * *

. Hermione shifted anxiously in a pleather waiting seat in St. Mungo's, rubbing her bare arms against the cold. In one hand she held an iron- studded cat-o-six-tails, in the other arm she held Professor Flitwick's robes. Her dominatrix clothing was particularly slutty today: she was wearing dark red thigh-length boots, a completely transparent silk miniskirt, and a dark red corset which had been haphazardly cut off mid-chest and had breast support added instead, and nothing else. Hence all of her considerable assets were on display to any and every red-blooded punter who trolled along. (Author's Note: I'm bashing the bishop as I write this.) (Author's Note: Not really!)  
One such loser, with a ginger moustache and a pustule the size of a baseball steadily growing larger on his cheek, leaned over to his friend and muttered, "I'm almost chuffed I got hit by Ricky's curse now that she's turned up, eh?" (Three eighths of the viewers of this "story" think Hermione should be ashamed of herself and are frankly disgusted by the punter's point of view, three eighths are chanting, 'You go girl!' and are laughing at the repressed dickhead's point of view, and exactly one quarter agree with that tosser's point of view. Because we all know that exactly a quarter of HP fanfic viewers are male!) "I'm sure he'll be all right." Harry assured Hermione confidently. He had accompanied her for a variety of reasons: one, to inspect her curves, two, to keep his friend company in a time of crisis, three, to admire her men's- magasine-grade rack, four, to find out as fast as possible the eventual predicament of her victim because he found the whole fiasco hilarious, five, to stare at her holiest-of-holies, and six, to try and wheedle information out of her about her clientele.  
"Poor Flitwick." she trembled. "He just kept asking for more and more, so even though he's so titchy I just kept getting harder and rougher and harder and rougher." There was a short pause in which Harry pretended to think about what to say next (in reality, he had mapped out this conversation on the broom ride over to the hospital).  
"Well, Hermione, I'm a bit fuzzy on exactly what a dominatrix does." Harry admitted. "Do you hurt them and screw them, screw them and hurt them, or just hurt them?"  
"I don't usually screw them, that costs triple." Hermione answered candidly.  
"Really? Wow, submissive men are screwed up." Harry stated. "So all you did was whip Flitwick really hard? He must be bloody weak if he ends up in St. Mungo's just for that."  
"Don't call him weak except to his face, he's the toughest customer I've ever had!" she scolded him ferociously, erect nipples flouncing up and down in her agitation. "For your information, the only reason he's in hospital right now is because he lent me this whip (because it was a family heirloom he'd always fancied a go with) and it turned out to be cursed! You do not want to know what horrid kind of stuff is oozing out of his bleeding back right now!"  
"Okay, okay." Harry placated her. "So Flitwick is a toughened customer. Hmmm, I bet you get all kinds of pansies who pass out after only a dozen lashes."  
Hermione giggled. "Yeah, I do. I really like them, though, because I charge the same for every customer no matter how long it takes to satisfy... Ah ha ha ha! Oh my God, last weekend one of my repeat customers named - " She stopped abruptly, merriment draining from her visage like some kind of facial enema. "Nice try, Harry. Nearly worked, too." she intoned, disgruntled. "But I'll never tell you who my customers are."  
"Shit." Harry muttered under his breath.  
A doctor strolled over. To Hermione's intense relief, he was not wearing the look on his face that doctors do when they're about to give bad news. He opened his mouth and spoke in unruffled, dulcet tones. "Good news, miss Bondage - I mean, Granger. Your Professor is definitely going to survive. The bad news is that there is no counter-curse, and the curse lasts for a whole month. So customer and client will be missing each other, and teacher and students will be doing without each other as well, for one month. It would not be a good idea for anyone to visit him during this time, however, due to his appalling condition, so I'm afraid we can offer no visiting time."  
"Thank you very much anyway." Hermione smiled fleetingly.  
The doctor opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, then opened and shut it several more times. He continued with this internal conflict for several seconds, with everyone in the room staring at him, before he reached a conclusion and a fairly predictable decision. "Would it be totally inappropriate for me to request your services at this time? For maybe ten o'clock, Sunday night?"  
Harry started sniggering so loudly he was almost braying. Hermione grinned like a shit-eater and boomed, "Not a problem."  
"No, no! I'm hiring her on my friend's behalf! He's the kind of sicko who likes to be punished!" the doctor spluttered, horrified and flustered by Harry's behaviour.  
"Sure you are." every single bloke in the waiting room chorused sarcastically.  
Two girls in Hogwarts uniform sprinted into the waiting room and shrieked loudly in pure knee-trembling lust when they saw Harry. Each proceeded to rip off their shirts and ties (for some reason that demented book-butcher Cuaron decided to put wizards in standard British school uniform in that immeasurable travesty of a film, Prisoner of Azkaban).  
"I can't believe groupies found me here." snorted Harry, half disgusted, half surprised, half delighted, and three-quarters wondering why he adds up to a total of 2 and a quarter. He reached up his robes, pulled off his boxers, and threw them at the girls one second before they fell upon him.

* * *

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT

* * *

. Harry was eating in the Great Hall, reading the Daily Prophet. The headline was 'Massacre at Madame Malkins'. Draco was pretending to read it over his shoulder while Harry debriefed him on the mission.  
"Dunno why they're calling it a massacre, I thought that at least 10 people had to die for it to qualify." Harry wondered aloud. "Anyway, good work. I wasn't sure you were up to the task, but you proved me wrong. I'm upping your salary."  
"Thank you, sir." Malfoy mumbled. "See you next meeting."  
Harry yawned and stretched. He badly needed some sleep. Not the kind of 'sleep' which involves sweaty nudity with multiple attractive females, some actual sleep. He definitely wouldn't get any sleep in Gryffindor tower, there would be at least six desperate bitches there, waiting to rip off his clothes. Harry was so oversexed that he almost shuddered at the prospect. He needed a good long lie-in, and chances were, if he stayed anywhere on Hogwarts grounds some girl would find him. So he resolved to go out and sleep in a hotel. He got up to leave and noticed Ginny Weasley alone further down the table.  
"What are you doing all alone?" Harry asked rudely. "I was under the impression that you had friends."  
"I used to have friends, but they weren't intelligent enough, so I ditched them." she answered.  
"You - what?"  
"They weren't intelligent enough. I suddenly realised I'm very clever and quick in the head, so I picked up philosophy. I'm working on the problems that have puzzled the cleverest of minds for millenia, and I think I'm getting close to proving or disproving the existence of a God."  
"So - you're a fricking philosopher now? Why the hell did you become one of those pretentious dickheads? Are you happy as a philosopher??"  
"Nulla est homini causa philosophandi, nisi ut beatus sit." Ginny said in a singsong voice.  
Harry was hearing the sound of one hand clapping.  
Ginny waited for Harry to ask what that meant. Harry didn't ask because he didn't care. Ginny got fed up with waiting and told him anyway.  
"It's a quote in Latin, said by St. Augustine." Ginny explained. "It means, 'Man has no reason to philosophise, except with a view to happiness.' But this statement isn't as concrete as it might sound to the layman. It means that an intelligent person will try to dispel the frustration they feel at not having unravelled the mysteries of the universe by philosophising, or even, in some cases, a philosopher will simply enjoy the bittersweet happiness of being unable to comprehend the many mysteries of the universe."  
Harry had lapsed into a coma registering 2 on the Glasgow scale.

* * *

TIME PASSES, NOT THAT ANYONE GIVES A SHIT

* * *

. Following Harry's cardiac resuscitation, it was school policy to prohibit the student from joining in with classes and forcing him/her to rest. Consequently, Harry snuck out of school and slept for thirty hours in an expensive hotel, disappointing the seventy-nine bitches who'd crammed themselves into his room, lying in wait for several hours before giving up.  
Of course, during this time, life went on for others. Or most of them, anyway, as we'll see.  
Ron was sleeping with his eyes open in Defence Against the Dark Arts, as today's lesson had no element of practicality in it whatsoever. This was largely because the new DADA teacher was Mr. Green. (Author's Note: Sorry, folks, I couldn't resist including this inside joke. Mr. Green is a former teacher of mine whose sheer, unbridled talent at sucking all life out of a room is extraordinary. Picture a balding stickman with a voice so nasal he always sounds like he's making fun of a Bronx accent, and when this nearly inaudible voice starts jabbering about Ancient Rome the resulting monsoons of boredom could congeal a jar of mayonnaise in seconds.) So Ron's bodyguard had to first shake Ron awake before passing him the note. Slowly Ron's brain shifted out of 'Park' and through to '3rd' and he looked at the note. The handwriting was unfamiliar. It read, 'I understand that if I need a very large quantity of cocaine you are the man to come to. Bring fifty kilos of the white stuff to the top of the Astronomy tower at midnight tonight. We'll pay $2,000,000US.'  
Ron whistled to himself softly. He'd really have to shake his organisation to find and pack 50kgs by tonight. And what the hell was up with the Muggle US dollar payment? At the top of the Astronomy tower? Very fishy. He'd have to prepare all the ground beforehand. He leaned back and started muttering instructions to his bodyguard, who concentrated hard on remembering all the details Ron was giving him.  
But Mr. Green is a sadistic bastard with ears like radar. "You! I hear you talking!" he screamed nasally. "Yes, you, Ronald Weasley, turning around so innocently to look behind you!" he added nasally. "How dare you have a conversation while I'm trying to conduct a lesson!"  
"Fuck off, ya twat." Ron shot back disgustedly.  
Mr. Green's head turned rigid. His eyes glazed over as he pondered this remark through. He pondered for thirty seconds at least. Then he forgot what he was pondering about, shook his head, and carried on with the lesson. (Author's Note: This actually happened in real life, right down to the choice of words - except obviously not with Ronald Weasley, with a guy I used to know.)

* * *

Judging by the laser splash on the centre of my chest right now, one of you has put a price on my head, albeit not a big enough price to hire a competent hitman who'd have fired by now. Jeez, club up, have all the people who despise me chip in some savings each so you can hire somebody like Léon. And do you know what the best way to club together is? By reviewing this chapter, so all the others have a method of contacting you!


	4. Ron is Nick Stone's lost twin

Author's Note: What the hell is that? Zero reviews for chapter 3? Fucking tossers, I know these chapters aren't as good as the first chapter, but they can't be so bad that all my readers are scared off. I'm still laughing at the new chapters, and so should you be.  
Anyway, just to guarantee that I lose all my readers, I'm taking this chapter from a slightly different tack. I'm temporarily doing away with the constant self-criticising, as you may have noticed, and this one chapter will be entirely from Ron's point of view during the shady and perilous drug deal that I mentioned last chapter. Just for one chapter I wanted to write Ron as a total badass, because when I compare the ruthless, unstoppable killer in this chapter with the ginger fuckwit on the big screen I laugh so loudly that people in my vicinity give me weird looks.

* * *

. Ron sat at the top of the Astronomy Tower, bitterly cold yet alert. Twelve hours ago he had set the plans in motion to purify and pack fifty kilos of coke, leaving his underlings to sort out the nearly impossible task. Then he and his bodyguard had discussed every possible eventuality and prepared for them all, SAS-style. The two agreed that the buyers were likely to be American Muggles and/or Squibs, because of the U.S. dollar payment, so Ron had planted very sensitive Muggle detectors all around the school grounds. He also borrowed four of Harry's best lieutenants as security for the deal, and already had his bodyguard and himself; since Ron was no virgin at combat, this meant that he would have six competent men on the case. Ron was also arming them all with things far more dangerous than wands, things that could kill dozens of people at a time, so these competent men were also heavily armed. If things turned into a gangfuck, they would probably win. And even if it turned into the mother of all gangfucks, they would certainly take a lot of the enemy with them.  
Seemingly as a show of trust, Ron was not wearing billowing wizard's robes in which one could hide any number of weapons, but was in fact wearing bright trousers and a dark, thick jumper, making him look unprepared for fighting. In fact, this jumper was hiding his wand, a Browning High-Power pistol, two shuriken and a Muggle-targeting Evil Sphere (TM) behind his back, and the bright trousers were simply Velcro pull-aparts on top of black trousers, so if he ripped off the bright trousers he'd be hard to see in the darkness; thus, Ron was just putting a calm look on a murderous mood ratcheted as taut as piano wire. His security, however, had no such illusions in their appearances, they all looked ready for genocide.  
Ron was sat beside his bodyguard on the stone ledge. He shivered almost imperceptibly in the November frost. He glanced at his watch, a G-Shock. It said 23:47. He looked back at his bodyguard. He mimed slicing his guts out and asked, "Tell me what it's called again, Sergei."  
Sergei smiled. "Viking's Revenge."  
Viking's Revenge is a hideous form of lethal torture, generally inflicted by gangsters upon rival gangsters in countries of Nordic descent. It involves cutting open the bowels, pulling out the entrails, and watching the victim die in consuming agony over the next forty minutes. He was asking because Sergei had recently finished telling a true story of how he captured his lifelong archnemesis in Finland, and just for fun finished him off using the the local Viking's Revenge.  
The cube in Ron's pocket vibrated violently. Ron took it into his hand. He was looking through the face into another cube's face, currently in the pocket of one of Ron's security men. Ron turned it over until it came to the right face. He found himself looking at the security man in a lower window of the Astronomy tower assigned as watchman, named Slack Pat. Without formality he began talking as soon as he saw Ron's face. "Sir, I've just pinged a Muggle sniper in a tall tree of the Forbidden Forest, so far back he hasn't even set off the Muggle detectors. What should I do?"  
Sergei glanced at Ron, his eyes giving Ron his opinion on the matter before he opened his mouth; he wanted to break it off now, to be on the safe side.  
"He might just be one of their security." Ron said, more to Sergei than the watchman. "See if you can set up a discrete Light Bend in front of the sniper so he can't shoot straight. If he shoots for any reason, I want you to take him out."  
"Sir yes sir." the watchman replied and crammed the cube back into his pocket, turning Ron's cube face nearly black from the shadow. Ron replaced his cube and continued waiting. But not for long.  
Eight Hippogriffs suddenly swooped in from nowhere. They hovered magnanimously or else flew in dizzying circles around the top of the tower. Then one landed in the centre. The two riders dismounted. One, the pilot, was a wizard, wearing a mask. The other, the passenger, was a Muggle. The Muggle had an assault rifle over his back, an M16A2.  
"Damn, it sucks riding around on those guys." he muttered. "Give me a 'Nam chopper instead any day."  
Ron recognised the face and struggled to attach a name to it. At last he came up with it. "John Kerry, Democratic presidential candidate?"  
"Obviously." he spat. "But just so you know, I'm not the buyer, I'm just the negotiator. But I served in 'Nam, so I'm no idiot, either. You try anything, you die, we'll make sure of that. So, to business. You don't seem to have the drugs."  
"Oh, they're here." Ron smiled conspiratorially. "But just beyond vision. Now, where's the money?"  
Kerry reached into his jacket, extracted $50k in hundred dollar bills wrapped in an elastic band, and threw it to Ron.  
"That's some of it." he said as Ron pocketed it. "Now where's the cola?"  
Ron reached behind the bench and took out two kilos of pure, uncut cocaine in a couple of bags. He tossed them to the mage in the mask, who packed them into saddlebags on his Hippogriff. "Now where's the rest of the money?"  
Kerry grinned wryly. "No sir. According to proper drug-selling etiquette, the home team - that is, the team who have spent the most time at the location - are most likely to initiate an ambush, because they are more likely to have prepared the ground beforehand for such an attack. Therefore, it is customary for them to reveal what they have first, to inspire trust. So you show me the rest of the drugs, and I show you the rest of the money."  
Ron and Kerry stared each other out. Neither won. But at last Ron decided to take the risk. "All right." he allowed. He calmly took out his wand, waved it carelessly, and returned it. At first it seemed he had accomplished nothing. Then Kerry suddenly realised that there was forty-eight kilos of cocaine two metres away from him. In waving the wand, Ron had removed the Camouflage from it.  
"Very clever, you wizards have all the tricks." he said, impressed. He signalled with his hands, and all but two of the Hippogriffs glided in and landed on the rooftop. Kerry returned to his Hippogriff, removed a huge suitcase, and walked over to Ron. Several wizards came forwards and started to load up the cocaine. Kerry grinned. "This is my trick."  
At these words Ron hurled himself at a sprint for the balcony of the tower, and Sergei and the three security men began drawing. Kerry opened the suitcase. A crystal disc the size of a bicycle wheel dropped out onto the ground and shattered, rippling a wave of purpleness throughout everyone present. Ron recognised the effects instantly, not least because he and Sergei had ascertained it to be the most likely method of attack; it dispelled all temporary magic in the vicinity and would impede the casting of spells here for several days. If it was a really good Dispelling Disc, it might even impede the wizards within the blast radius from casting spells for a period of time after leaving. Ron almost casually flicked both shuriken from the holder behind his back into Kerry's upper torso. "That's unfair!" Kerry whined, collapsing into a dead heap. Ron knew that the Muggle guns would be firing in less than a second, and as the high-profile character he would be the prime target for the Americans, so it was time to fuck off expeditiously. Ron was grimly satisfied that he'd also issued his men with Muggle guns, so they wouldn't be helpless like the Americans probably thought they were.  
Ron reached the edge of the tower and vaulted over the side without hesitation. Lying on the lee outside here was a Model V-43 Low-Altitude Parachute, with a customised H&K USP pistol, two spare mags, and a torch duct-taped to the side. Ron had personally packed and prepared it all in his room, later placed it here and casted a Camouflage on it, which had been Dispelled by the disc so it was in plain view. Ron reached desperately - if he missed he would have a long fall to reflect on how retarded his death would appear - time seemed to slow down - he streched his arm further - he was going to miss - he snagged one of the straps between two fingernails! He just about managed to drag the parachute off the ledge as he fell.  
Ron was totally unaware of the carnage now being wrought on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. He deigned to yank the parachute closer, got it around his back, with one hand ripped off his pull-apart trousers and then dropped them, and pulled the ripcord with the other. The chute opened in under a second (much like an airbag, it used explosives to open the chute faster). Unfortunately the ropes were substandard quality, they snapped and the chute floated away uselessly, black nylon nearly invisible against the midnight sky. Ron prayed and pulled the reserve chute, which was also black. The explosives opened this chute properly, the ropes held, and he began floating. Jesus, what the fuck is happening with the wind? Ron thought. All of a sudden it's picked up really strongly. Ron floated further sideways than downwards, and suddenly the probable landing zone wasn't the middle of the Hogwarts courtyard, it was the bleeding lake. Ron tugged at parachute straps to steer away from it.  
Half a minute passed, and Ron was aiming to land nicely on the far side of a gentle hill. He was glad that the Americans didn't try and chase him - mind you, once Ron's men started firing their MAC-10 submachineguns the wankers probably started worrying about their own survival, let alone cleaning up after the job efficiently.  
But then Ron noticed the deluxe limousine directly next to the landing zone. It was too late to try and turn, he was committed to that hill. He also noticed the two tuxedo-clad security personnel mucking around outside the limo, and judging by how their heads looked elongated from this range, they were probably wearing PNGs (Passive Night Goggles). It was a wonder they hadn't seem him yet, but any second now. Ron had only a couple of seconds to kill the two, if he failed he'd hit the ground as a sack of dead meat. This left him one option to survive, eliminate them both while in midair.  
Instinctively he broke down the contact into lightning-quick phases. Phase 1 was keeping his eyes on the security detail. Phase 2 was reaching up and grabbing the pistol grip of the customised USP with his right hand while reaching across himself with his left hand and snatching up a handful of the duct tape. Phase 3 was ripping off the duct tape, a noise that would be sure to catch the attention of the gunmen. Phase 4 was getting the weapon into the aim with both hands. The way the USP was customised was that it had a laser sight attached under the barrel, which Ron now flicked on, and it had a x5 scope between the normal sights, attached to the barrel (not the slidebar, so it wouldn't move back and forth with every round fired, and far enough forward so the ejected casings wouldn't strike it on the way out), which Ron now looked through. The two men came into sharp relief, mere silhouettes in the reflection of the moonlight, both looking his way, one with a red laser splash dancing around his chest. Phase 5 was slotting the fuckers. Ron fired twice, then shifted to the other boy and fired twice at centre mass. He noticed neither one fell down, though they jerked when the rounds hit. He correctly surmised they were wearing covert body armour, and aimed a little higher, for the head. He fired at the second boy's head four times to make sure of at least one hit, then reverted to the original target and fired three rounds for the head. Both went down without firing a shot themselves.  
Ron hit the ground running downhill, and dropped the parachute pack. He immediately moved to one side before the wind blew the parachute over his head, which would possibly entangle him in the ropes. He got behind a boulder, pocketed the USP (turning off the laser sight first), drew his other weapon, the Browning High Power, and waited for the boys in the limo to come out with weapons drawn.  
Though the limo was rocking, nobody came out. He waited patiently. The limo was still rocking. Ron's mouth fell open in wonder. Were the people in the limo so gormless and/or preoccupied that they didn't hear eleven gunshots? For fuck's sake, they were that retarded. He'd assumed they were connected with the Americans massacring his boys up the tower, and assumed that by association they must be Premier League players in the world of mercenaries. But despite their having PNGs, tuxedos and a limo, they were as skilled and clued-in as Mr. Bean.  
Ron reloaded the thirteen-round magazine of the USP, keeping the two-round mag in a pocket only so as to not leave traces, and took out his wand. He muttered, "Lumos." This had no effect, he remained in the dark. Obviously the Dispelling Disc was of excellent quality, and he could currently cast no more spells than Filch the slave-boy. Ron drew his Browning as well as the USP for extra firepower as he approached the vehicle in case the bastards were lulling him into a false sense of security. He silently got to the two bodies and looked them over. Each one had taken two rounds in the head, one of which was through the PNGs in both cases. Shame, they were cute toys to play with. Ron looked through their pockets. He came up with two authentic-looking Secret Service badges. He froze in horror. Fuck, he was in big-boy shit now.  
Well, if the bastards still hadn't come out, they genuinely hadn't noticed the gunshots. The limo was still rocking, but seemed to be soundproof, as Ron couldn't hear anything from within the limo. Ron sighed. Well then, as long as he did it right and there weren't too many guns in there, taking over this limo would be as easy as breathing.  
Ron shut one eye, turned on the laser sight of the USP, and waved it over his other eye to destroy its night-vision. He turned off the laser sight and approached the back right door of the target. He reached for the handle and tentatively lifted it with the bottom three fingers of his right hand. He felt soft resistance (i.e. he sensed that he could pull it further with more effort), which meant that the door was unlocked, whereas hard resistance (i.e. sensing that it can't be pulled further) would mean it was locked. He took a deep breath, kept his night-vision eye closed, yanked open the door and pointed both weapons into it, not having a clue what he'd find. What he saw was jaw-dropping.  
The inside of the limo was like smokehouse from the eddying blue whirls of cigar smoke. The people inside the limo were seven naked, smoking-hot babes, four of which were tanned European girls and the other three of Arabic lineage, one Donald Rumsfeld, wearing only socks, one George Bush, wearing only the top half of a flight suit and flight helmet, and one Osama bin Laden, wearing only a turban.  
"What. The. Bloody. Fucking. Hell." Ron announced.  
"Hmmm, guy with gun is here. You got my cocaine or am I gonna have to bop ya in the eye again?" Bush asked in a hillbilly voice.  
"Sir, that's not Tray, that's some redhead kid. And I think he's that Weasley dealer we - you - came here to knock off today. And I think he's pissed off." Rummy informed his boss.  
"What the shite is bin Laden doing sharing your limo?!" Ron hollered.  
"Well, 'Sama's always been my friend and business partner." Bush smiled benignly. "Our families have a lot of strong business ties. Didn't you see Fahrenheit 9/11?"  
"When Bushie mentioned he was going to get together a fuck load of blow today, I couldn't resist the invitation, and neither could Rummy." bin Laden explained. "This is just the preliminary party right here before we cart this stuff back to the White House."  
"IS IT A REQUIREMENT ON YOUR RESUMÉ THAT YOU HAVE TO BE A CORRUPT MOTHERFUCKER TO BECOME PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES?" Ron roared, eyes popping.  
"Well, yeah, but -" Donny began, but was cut short when Ron shot him in the groin with the Browning. He administered this to all three men, let them scream for a while, then shot them each in the head. He reloaded the Browning, leaving the prostitutes where they were and started the long run back to the castle. 


End file.
